"Meaning it is not purely a medical decision."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we need to notify certain people before she can be discharged."
Meaning that Walsh and whoever he was taking orders from had decided to keep Special Agent Kate Mayfield in Bellevue where they could keep her under wraps, and also keep her away from her husband whom she loved dearly, but who the FBI needed to borrow for a special assignment, namely, live bait.
The people at 26 Fed and in Washington sometimes impressed me with their thinking. I say that whenever they think like I do.
The nurse wasn't going to tell me who "certain people" were, and she didn't know herself, so I said, "See if Mrs. Corey would like a sedative." I thanked her and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Back in my apartment, I managed to get half of my incident report typed-being careful not to embellish the facts, and letting my actions speak for themselves. And keeping in mind that Kate would be reading this, I made her look good, describing how she grappled with her assailant and so forth. I even gave her that knee to Khalil's nuts.
At five o'clock I watched the local news that had dropped the story about the home invasion and murders in Douglaston, Queens. This was yesterday's news, and it wouldn't be news again unless there was an arrest in the case, or if the media decided to cover the funeral. Gabe would get a full inspector's funeral, and I needed to find out the funeral arrangements.
The scroll at the bottom of the TV screen reported the alert level at yellow, where it seemed to have been stuck for many months. It would never be green, and it hadn't been orange in a long time. I personally like orange-it gets everyone's attention and gives people something to talk about over cocktails.
On that subject, it was now cocktail hour, and I had time for a small one before I was picked up by my chauffeur and shotgun rider for my hospital visit.
As I was trying to decide if I wanted vodka (odorless) or Scotch (my usual), my prepaid cell phone rang.
Not many people have that number, but it could be Kate.
I picked up the phone from the coffee table and answered, "Corey."
Dick Kearns's voice said, "May I speak to the man of the house?"
Dick obviously had good news. I replied, "Yes, ma'am. I'll get him."
He laughed at my quick wit and said, "Hey, John, I think I found him. Right here in New York."
"Alive?"
"Yeah… I guess. The guy I got this from in the New York field office didn't say he was dead."
"Okay." But the FBI wouldn't necessarily know immediately if one of their registered defectors had gone missing or had an accident.
"Ready to copy?"
I had a pad and pencil on the coffee table and said, "Shoot."
"Okay. Boris Korsakov." He spelled it for me and said, "He fits your description of approximate age and former KGB employment. The FBI guy I spoke to didn't say anything about Libyan Intelligence, or past addresses, but he did say that Boris was here under the post-Soviet resettlement program."
"Okay… I guess that's close-"
"You saw this guy-right?"
"Right."
"So, go to your computer. I e-mailed you the photo the FBI e-mailed me."
"Hold on." I went into the spare bedroom that Kate and I had made into a home office-not a guest room for Mom-and logged onto my computer.
Dick asked me, "How's Kate?"
"Much better."
I retrieved Dick's e-mail, and staring back at me on the screen was Boris. My Boris.
"You got it?"
"I do. That's him, Dick. You're a genius."
"I am a total bullshit artist. I had this FBI guy in the palm of my hand."
Dick went on a bit, and I listened politely and patiently. Dick Kearns, who hadn't been so sure he could or should do this for me, now assured me that it was a piece of cake. But then he caught himself and said, "I busted my butt getting to the right guy, and convincing him I had clearance and need-to-know."
I kept staring at the photo of Boris. This was a tough-looking hombre, and I recalled that Kate and I had been impressed with him-he not only talked the talk, he walked the walk. Could Asad Khalil have gotten the upper hand on this guy? I wouldn't have thought so three years ago when I'd met Boris, but…
"John? I said, I have an address."
"Good."
"He lives at 12-355 Brighton 12th Street, Brighton Beach-along with half the Russians in New York. Apartment 16-A." Dick added, "He's been there almost three years."
"Okay." Boris got his wish to be resettled in New York, and he'd picked a neighborhood where he wouldn't get too homesick, and where ex-KGB guys got together over a bottle of vodka and reminisced about the good old days when they were young and hated.
"I couldn't get Boris's cell or home phone from the FBI, but I did get his business phone."
"Good enough."
Dick gave me Boris's business number and I asked him, "Where's he work?"
"Okay, here's the part that could be a little fun for you, so I saved it for last-"
"You better not tell me he works in a Russian bath house where he scrubs men's asses."
"Funny, I was going to say that. But here's the deal. Boris owns and operates a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach. You remember, we went to a few of those places with Ivan the crazy Russian when we were single, and-"
"I was single. You've been married thirty years."
"Whatever. Anyway, remember that place…? What was the name? Rossiya. Those tall, blonde-"
"Do you have a name for this place?"
"Yeah. It's Svetlana. I don't think we were ever there. It's right on the boardwalk at Brighton Third Street."
"Okay… and this place is owned by Boris?"
"Well, with these Russkies, who knows who the silent partners could be? It's all Russian Mafia. Right? Maybe Boris is the front guy."
"Maybe. But maybe the CIA gave him a loan."
"Yeah? Hey, maybe we should defect to Russia and see about opening an American nightclub."
"You go first. I'll stay here and run your business."
"We can talk." He asked me, "What do I do now with Vasili Rimski?"
"Who?"
"The guy I'm doing the background check on. He put in an application to work for the General Accounting Office-he's an accountant. Low-level background check. But I just told the FBI that he consorts with an ex-KGB guy named Boris Korsakov. Should I mention that in my report?"
"Do what's best for the country, Dick."
He laughed and said, "Hey, let me know how this turns out."
"Okay-"
"Why haven't I seen anything in the papers?"
"It's under tight wraps." I hesitated, then asked him, "Did you see that story about the home invasion and murders in Queens?"
"Yeah. A cop and his family."
"Well, that cop worked for the Task Force."
Dick was silent for a moment, then said, "Jeez." He asked me, "And that's related to the attack on Kate?"
"Yeah."
He was silent again and asked, "Is that why you're under house protection?"
"You should be a detective." I said to him, "Okay, I owe you big time for this. I'm off to see Kate-"
"Watch yourself."
"Thanks for reminding me. I'll call you next week."
I hung up and printed out the color photo of Boris, and I wrote on it, "Svetlana Nightclub, Brighton Beach," then I wrote a note to Kate saying, Tell Vince and Tom they need to see Boris, and tell them why.
It occurred to me that I was leaving notes around as though I didn't expect to be around myself.
Before I left the apartment, I poured myself a little Stolichnaya, to celebrate appropriately, and to wish Boris a long life. Or at least long enough to be alive when I got there.